


After Hurts the Most

by CanadianSnow (ShelbyCelina)



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Adult Content, Adultery, Angst, Boys In Love, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-05-25 14:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6197836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShelbyCelina/pseuds/CanadianSnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’m an addict, and I will always be able to justify my need of Simon Snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure, this is a very unhealthy relationship between Baz and Simon. However, I read More Happy Than Not (side-note: excellent book!) on the weekend and parts of the story made me think of this particular type of dynamic between Baz and Simon. And I wanted to write it!
> 
> Hope it is still enjoyable! :)

**BAZ**

Two cigarettes every day I can make it. A reward. Another addiction I’ve given up battling, because my other one is so much worse. My need. My want. It takes over. It crawls into my bones. My brain thinks of nothing but his beautiful face, my skin remembers nothing but his touch, my heart hears nothing but my name on his lips.

Two cigarettes. A reward. For having control. For not contributing to us being toxic monsters. For not being fucked up beyond repair.

Some days, I need to reward myself hourly. A cigarette an hour.

My throat is burning.

Today _isn’t_ a good day.

A cigarette every half hour.

I feel hazy, my mouth is filled with nothing but the acrid taste of chemicals.

My cigarette burns out. I light a new one with trembling hands. I look at the clock. I turn on the television. I light another cigarette. I eat a bagel. Another cigarette. A cup of tea.

I run out of cigarettes.

Today isn’t a good day.

**SIMON**

He doesn’t look at me while he waits in line. My heart is pounding. He said _never_ again. He said it was the _last_ time. This is the longest he’s made it.

When he gets to the register he orders his usual from Penny. Mocha. Shot of pumpkin syrup. Breve milk. She looks over at me and raises an eyebrow. I dismiss her with a look that says _mind your fucking business_. She shrugs and shakes her head.

Toxic. Volatile. Destructive.

A few of her choice words in describing our relationship. If you could call it that. I can’t. I won’t. Because it means something, and it can’t mean anything…because of Agatha. My palms are sweaty as I work on his drink. He runs his fingers along the counter and waits. When I slide the drink to him I brush my fingers against his.

My brain short circuits. I replay our movie— the one I created in my head after the first time. The one I keep for dark moments— for when my life feels hopeless. When I feel like I am swimming against the current. When I remember I am destroying three people’s lives. When I have to look in the mirror and admit I am nothing more than an adulterer. A bad cliché defined by my weakness, trying to make excuses because of a past I should have stopped letting bother me a long time ago. Our movie is my out, my moment of sanity in the depths of the insane. It is filled with arched backs, and his dark hair, it is interlaced fingers, soft lips, and sharp teeth. It is filled with love. It is the good when I can only focus on the bad.

He looks up from the counter. His beautiful dark grey eyes search my face. His eyes. It was the first thing I noticed about him, and the first thing about him I crossed a line for. We had been standing in the evening sun, waiting for Agatha to join us outside. She was still getting ready, but I found her flat too stuffy to wait in. I was always worried I was going to spill something on her cream coloured sofa— even when I had nothing to spill. So I said I was going to wait outside. Baz followed me. He was smoking, and I was watching his face as he took deep inhales. He was complaining about the sun, how he wished he had remembered his sunglasses.

“I’m glad you didn’t.” I told him before I could help myself. He raised an eyebrow and took another drag from his cigarette. He waited, like he knew I had something more to say. He looked infinitely cool as I took a deep breath and tried to get my words out. “It's just... you have the loveliest eyes.” It was half a whisper, barely a sound. But he heard me. He smirked. I blushed. And then Agatha joined us.

I took a shower that night. My first night shower in years. Morning showers were quick. I was always in a rush, on my way to work or to classes. I didn’t have time if I showered in the morning. But, night showers were a different story. My hands slowly traveled along my body in a way I thought I had forgotten. I thought of grey eyes locked onto mine. Grey eyes as I kissed down a body longer and smoother than my own. And then I was picturing black hair falling against my back, and sleek muscles between my thighs, and my mouth wrapped around _him_. All because of grey eyes. I kept turning the water hotter and hotter with each new thought. Afterwards, I felt like _me_ for the first time in years. It had been so long since I allowed myself to think like that. So long since I had been honest.

I leave my fingers against his on the cup. We don’t say anything. He licks his lips. I bite mine.

“Tonight,” I whisper. It isn’t a question.

He looks like I’ve punched him. My heart beats faster. He drags his fingers along the cup and looks down. I wait, and wait, and wait.

He nods and walks away.

 _Tonight_.

I can’t stop grinning.

**BAZ**

I am shaking when I leave the café. I am so weak. And yet, my heart is soaring. The way he looked at me, his chapped lips pulled between his white teeth, his trembling hands touching my skin. He wants this, he wants me. I exhale and turn the corner to my flat, and that's when I see _her_. Undoubtedly on her way to visit him. I drop my head, but I am too tall to blend. She slows down, her white-blonde hair glowing in the sun. She’s beautiful, and I feel dirty.

“Bazzy!” She squeals.

She was my friend before I even knew him. I told her I was gay before I had even told my family. We used to study together at the café, but really I would just watch Simon. Watch him drop cups and spill scalding milk on himself. Watch him laugh too loudly at customer’s terrible jokes, while my insides screamed angrily that he never laughed like that with me.

I was obsessed from the moment I saw him, and she knew that. She would tease me about him constantly. "The cute barista is much too distracting for us to study here." She would laugh. Like Simon was something to laugh at, like my infatuation was a joke. I wanted to correct her. Simon wasn’t cute. He was exquisite, and radiant, and beautiful in a way even she wasn’t. She didn’t get it. And then she asked him out. When he said yes I wasn’t sure I would ever remember how to breathe again. Why did it have to be him? _Why did it have to be me?_

She didn’t even tell me before she did it, but she must have known how I felt, she must have known that she _should_ have told me. She couldn’t have thought she was the only one to notice him? Perhaps she didn't care. Thinking back, I wouldn't have asked her before plucking up the courage to ask Simon out either, which had always been my plan. I spent weeks sitting at the same table, talking to him, getting to know him. Agatha didn't put in the same effort. She didn't know he was left handed, or once had a dog named Zeus. She didn't know that he didn't have a middle name. She didn't know that his favourite colour was blue or that he blushed when nervous, excited, or scared. She didn't know him at all, and maybe this isn't fair, but it felt like a betrayal to me when she asked him out, which is maybe how I've been able to justify what I've been doing.

I should have told her from the beginning that I had a problem with her dating him. But, I didn't get the chance. Before I knew what was happening Simon was suddenly everywhere, and I was too terrified to say something that would risk all the moments I was getting to see him. Agatha brought Simon in tow to all our regular traditions, to every campus event, to every gala held by her parents. She would dress him in clothes she picked out and fix his hair to how she liked it. She was grooming him to her tastes. She would parade him around the room, and I would watch him shove his hands into his pockets, too uncomfortable to make eye contact with anyone he was meeting. It wasn’t him, and I hated her for trying to change him. Because I liked him in his worn jeans and red sneakers. I liked him with messy hair and wrinkled shirts. I liked him when he wasn’t pretending to be someone else, and he was always pretending with her.

It was months of the three of us being friends. I still couldn’t bring myself to uncouple from them because I was desperate to be around him, even if it made me scream into a pillow every night. Eventually, our dynamic changed— because you can only pretend for so long. Even someone as skilled at pretending as Simon has to crack eventually.

It was a typical Friday evening. If I had known what was going to happen that night I would have prepared more. I would have worn something nicer, I would have drawn out the night however I could manage. Our Friday tradition was going to the cinema together, only this particular Friday Agatha cancelled. When Simon asked if I wanted to go anyway I didn't allow myself to get excited. We were friends, and as I liked to remind myself, I had technically known him first. So, we went without her, and he had never seemed so relaxed. I told him that exactly, that he seemed different without Agatha around (because I can’t keep my fucking mouth shut). Surprisingly, he didn’t get angry or try to argue with me. He shrugged, like he was holding onto this truth that I was only now just realizing. He didn’t love her, and it was so glaringly obvious to everyone but Simon.

We went to the movies again the next week, and the week after, and the week after. We didn’t even bother inviting her. This was for us. At some point we started touching more. Any feeble excuse we could think of. Reaching for popcorn, admiring a jacket, fixing messy hair. We took long lingering pauses against each other’s skin whenever we were alone. Each time it felt like a current running through me. Each time I was sure I could hear his breathing deepen. But, it was his skin that gave everything away. Beautiful crimson stains would spread across his cheeks and neck every time I looked at him too long, or whenever I would push a rogue curl from his eyes.

And then one week, in a dark theatre, with a movie neither of us really wanted to see playing, I dropped my hand to my side and his was _there_ — already open and waiting, and I couldn't help but wonder how many weeks he had been waiting for me? I held my breath as he released his. I moved slowly, carefully, like I was worried I would scare him off. I took a moment to just feel his hand, feel its warmth, its presence, its reminder that I had a boy beside me that I wanted very badly. I dragged my fingers from his wrist to the tip of his middle finger. I watched his profile as he swallowed, as his head titled, as his skin flushed, as his eyes remained purposefully fixed forward, like he was terrified to look at me. I had never wanted someone more. But, I didn't do anything but touch his hand. I dragged my fingers again before sliding them between his own. He squeezed once, and then a smile spread across his face, and it took everything in me to not drag him back to my place.

The credits started to roll long before I was ready to let go. We stayed exactly as we were until the very last moment. I took it as a good sign that I had to let go first. When we stood up, Simon started talking about the movie, like nothing had happened. We left the theatre, and it was clear Simon wanted to talk about anything _but_ holding hands. I was hurt, until the next week when I dropped my hand and his was once again open and waiting for me.

**SIMON**

He kissed me first.

We had started having our movie nights at his flat— there wasn’t always a movie we wanted to see in theatres. It was different watching movies together on a small couch surrounded by pieces of Baz— it was more intimate. The theatre was our escape, whatever happened sitting in the plush red seats was okay, because it wasn't real. It was denial at its finest. But, at his flat I was forced to admit this was very real. What I was feeling, what I was thinking, what I was aching for— there was a tension between us I couldn’t ignore.

When it happened we were watching a mindless comedy. I was fidgeting, he was staring at my profile in a way I very much welcomed. Our knees kept bumping, our shoulders grazing. I would move away and seconds later I was brushing against him again. I couldn’t stop. I said his name. Just once. A question. And that was it. He lunged at me on the couch, his lips crashing into mine and it was relief. So much fucking relief because I realized I had been waiting for him to do it. But then it hit me that I was kissing someone who wasn't Agatha.

I threw him off me, we were both breathing heavily. “I’m not gay,” were the only words I could manage before I was crawling back to this lap and his hands were pulling at my hair. It was a mess. A fucking mess. I had never been sloppier in my life with a kiss. It was wrong. But I needed it. I slipped my tongue into his mouth and our teeth smashed together. But neither of us stopped. We kissed until my lips were red and swollen, until I was sure we were breathing nothing but saliva and stale air.

We haven’t stopped since.

I know it is wrong. I understand the irreparable damage I am doing to three hearts. 

Every day I tell myself to break up with her, but there is never a good time. Because I can’t be gay. Because it was supposed to be beaten out of me a long time ago by a man I promised to make proud. Because it means I need to think about things I vowed to never think about again.

So, I tell myself to end it with Baz, knowing full well I can't. Because he is the only thing I want. The only thing I’ve ever wanted in my entire life.

I am a coward. I understand this too.

**BAZ**

He shows up just after eight. He’s still wearing his black jeans and t-shirt from work. I know his skin will smell faintly of coffee and cinnamon. He looks nervous. I’ve never made him wait this long.

“How long?” I ask.

“She’s staying with a friend tonight.”

He grins, and I hate him for it. Hate him for making me love him. Hate him for his beautiful, easy smile, when he should feel as disgusted as I do. When he should hate himself as much as I do. But I am already walking toward him. And he’s already pulling off his shirt, revealing the expanse of freckles and moles that scatter his skin. His beautiful, warm skin. He doesn't stop grinning as he slides off his jeans. He closes the space between us.

I smirk and start to unbutton my own shirt. “No, I want to.” He whispers against my mouth as his hands take over for me. I hate him more, because I melt as his shaking hands work clumsily against each button. As his fingers slowly trail down my chest and back up to my shoulders. I hate him for being gentle. For looking at me nervously, like he isn’t sure if I want this. For making my skin burn just from his unsteady fingers.

I hate him even more when he inhales sharply as he leans over to kiss each of my shoulders, to kiss my collarbone. I hate him when he pauses and then bites hard on my left shoulder, all the gentleness from before gone. I hate him because I know what type of night this will be.

Heavy, needy, messy, hard.

“God, I missed you,” he exhales into my ear, and then inhales deeply as he pulls me towards my room. I hate him most in this moment. For saying what I was desperately hoping he would, for nourishing my addiction.

We won’t hold back tonight, and it won’t be enough. I’ll cling to him and drag my nails down his back and through his golden curls. He’ll leave his marks all over my skin in a way I can’t do to his. We will be fighting, raging against ourselves as we explore one another. It will be one of those nights where I will question everything. Question that maybe this will be enough for me, that maybe we could do this forever, because I can’t bring myself to let him go.

I’m an addict.

**SIMON**

I am lost. Lost in my need. In my want. Lost in Baz. I let myself lose control. He grabs my hips as he slides further into me. I close my eyes and let him. _Take all you want. Take all of me._ He pulls on my hips harder. I lift them and grab the sheets around me.

I scream for more.

He tells me he hates me as he drives further into me.

He thrusts again, and again. I look up at him from under my chaotic hair, already plastered to my forehead in sweat. His stormy eyes lock onto mine.

“I hate you,” he growls it at me with clenched teeth.

“I love you,” he whispers softly as I tilt up higher.

I hate you. I love you. Over and over. He does this every time.

I keep screaming.

He comes undone with a final thrust, my hips sore from his fingers. He dips low to my mouth and presses a gentle kiss to my lips. “You’re so beautiful. It _fucking_ hurts, Si.” His voice is indulgent. A tone he uses just with me, when he is fully mine. _Mine. Mine. Mine._ And then his mouth is on me in an angry flourish I know is his guilt. He runs his tongue over delicate skin. I whimper his name. He groans against me, his thick hair falling against my lower abdomen. More guilt burrows in at the sound of his name. He sucks on the skin at my hip. I let him. I let the glorious pleasure-pain wash over me.

It hurts, in just the way he knows I like. It will leave a mark. It will be proof of what we did, of what we are doing. I usually curse him for it, because the bastard does it on purpose. But, some days, like today, I don’t mind. It feels so fucking good, and it is a reminder. A reminder that we are real. Two hearts, two minds, two people too fucked up to stop. He nips, he drags sharp teeth against thin skin. He strokes me, and then I shove his face impatiently towards my erection. He doesn’t hesitate. He lets me finish in his mouth. His cheekbones hollowed as I thrust upward.

After I pull him to my chest.

I love him. I really fucking love him. But, I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

**BAZ**

After is the worst. Guilt. Shame. Love. It all runs together, fighting for control of the moment. Simon goes soft. His eyes crinkle as he looks at me like I can fix him. I can’t. I can’t even fix me. He looks at me like this is okay, but it isn’t. He runs his fingers down my jaw gently. “You’re lovely,” he whispers into my hair. And then, “I love you.” My whole body tightens every time he says it. He means it. I’ve seen him say it to her. It isn’t the same.

I hate him.

I tell him I love him.

We kiss with tender lips. We let small murmurs and hopeful words make promises that neither of us can keep.

A moment in time where we forget. And then it hits me again. Guilt. Shame. Love.

 _Anger_.

I should be enough. Enough for him to end it with her. To overcome whatever keeps him silent about who he is. I should be enough.

It always hurts the most after, because I’m an addict, and I will always be able to justify my need of Simon Snow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this was going to just be the one chapter, but I really enjoyed writing this dynamic! So, here is a second chapter! I hope it isn't too repetitive from the original chapter since plot isn't really a main focus in this story. 
> 
> Hopefully you all enjoy, and are having a lovely week :)

**SIMON**

I wake up blissfully happy, tangled in unfamiliar-yet-familiar sheets, a warm body pressed next to mine. It occurs to me this could be my life. I could wake up this happy every day. I could wake up feeling full and content. Satisfied in a way I stopped thinking was possible, satisfied in being deliriously exhausted and alarmingly alive all at once.

Except that something is gnawing in the back of my brain. Vicious words tumble across my lips. Words I am uncomfortably familiar with, words seared into my skin.

_Dirty. Worthless. Wrong. Disgusting._

Other words try to surface, harsher slurs I refuse to even think. The ones I push deep inside, the ones I still try to pretend never came out of the mouth of the man who raised me, the man who was supposed to love me no matter what. Phantom pain lingers across my back. The burning sensation of a belt on flesh. I reach around and touch a series of faint scars. _Skiing accident,_ I tell anyone who notices. Except I don’t ski. But, the truth makes people uneasy, they end up wishing they had never asked at all. They look at you differently— seeing your shame in someone else’s eyes makes you feel pathetic all over again. It opens up old wounds. I guess some scars just don’t heal, no matter what you try.

Baz stirs beside me. He catches my hand and laces his fingers in mine. Even he doesn’t know the truth. I'm not sure I would want him to know. He leans closer to me and presses a small kiss between my shoulder blades. I sigh heavily.

“How much longer,” he whispers.

Not long enough. The emptiness is coming back, my earlier gratification slowly seeping from me. I am returning to the version of myself I need to be. The self who can’t love the beautiful man next to me. The self who needs to be someone I hate.

I reach for my phone. It is later than I thought. She’s always been suspicious, even before anything was happening. She is probably already wondering why I haven’t spoken to her yet today. I roll to face Baz. He already knows what I am going to say, his mouth is pressed into a harsh line, his hair lazily falling into his face, just the way I like, it makes the inevitable harder. I bite my lip and look down.

“You need to go,” he states curtly. I hate myself for needing him to be the one to say it, for being too weak to even say goodbye. I nod. I don’t bother apologizing. It can’t mean much to him anymore, just empty words from an empty man. I roll out of bed and start searching for my clothes. He leans back onto the headboard and rubs his face.

“We can’t do this anymore.”

I keep searching for my clothes. I don’t trust myself to respond, because all I want is to slip back into the warmth of his sheets, the allure of his naked skin is calling me back to moments ago when I woke up delighted at the state of my life. I could. I could crawl back to him. I could end it with her, and we could stay in bed for days, ignoring the world, ignoring the fallout. He would let me. He would wrap his arms around me and protect me from all the words I am so scared to hear again.

But, I don’t. Instead I wordlessly and heartlessly start to dress. He glares at me, his shame written all over his face. He’s ashamed of me. Of us. And that hurts more than anything else.

“Seriously, Si. I mean it.”

I inhale, trying not to notice his use of Si. His name for me. She only ever calls me Simon, drawled out like I’ve already irritated her. “ _Siii-mon_ , why must you always eat in your _nice_ clothes? You _know_ you spill.” I can’t even fault her for it, because I do spill. Constantly. And always on the new shirts she buys for me, the shirts that make me feel like someone else, the shirts that restrict and conceal me in more ways than one.

Every time I spill something she lets out an exasperated sigh at my carelessness, an accusation of doing it on purpose lingering between us. Baz is different. In so many ways. The first time I spilled something after we had started… _this_ … it was ice cream (naturally). A massive dollop of it slid down my shirt and we both stared at it. I was waiting for him to say something, I braced for the flurry of insults— the reminder I am an insufferable slob. Baz, like Agatha, never spills. Instead, he laughed at me, a gentle laugh with the unmistakable vibration of affection. He pulled me close and licked the corners of my mouth.

“You’re a mess.” He whispered. “And _so_ delicious.” He licked my mouth again.

“You’re disturbed.” I had laughed.

“I know, ask anyone.”

And then he pulled off my shirt, not once commenting on the offensive stain, as he licked every inch of bare skin he could find. Like I was irresistible, like I was the fucking ice cream.

My heart tightens. He looks at me.

“Say something," he demands.

I open my mouth, but words don’t come out. I bite my lip. Tears form behind my eyes. I can’t give him up. I can’t. He has to understand.

“I love you," I tell him honestly.

His face hardens. “No. Anything _but_ that.”

I shake my head stupidly. I don’t know how to argue with him, how to tell him how hysterical I am at the thought of losing him. I don’t know how to make him understand. My silence infuriates him— this I know. He looks at me with disdain. In this moment I am not the ice cream— I am the fucking stain of his life. The dirty blemish of shame that muddles his entire existence.

“I’m serious. Never again, okay?”

I nod pathetically, sheepishly. Perhaps he means it. But when I look at him, my blue eyes watering, I see his own eyes soften, and I know he doesn’t mean it. He is engaging with his own demons, his own guilt, but at the end of it he is just like me— weak, needy, fucked up.

He needs me. I need him.

I let myself out. He calls one last never again from the bedroom. A final sentiment for good measure, for extra bravado, adding to his own facade. The more you say it the truer it is, right?

Something else we have in common.

**BAZ**

I am out on my balcony, smoking the two cigarettes I earned today. It has been five days. Five days of picturing his tawny skin pulled between my teeth. Five days of needing to change my sheets because every night I am spilling myself across them, desperately, quickly, trying to expel him from my system in a way that involves only myself.

Just the thought alone is causing the fabric of my jeans to strain against me. I light another cigarette. Five days. They say it takes twenty-one days to break a habit. Twenty-one impossible fucking days. It would be easier if Simon _were_ a habit. Something as irritating as a taste for sugar. Something that would be uncomfortable to give up at first, perhaps even a little painful, but could ultimately be achieved. Simon isn’t a habit though, my need for him is unyielding. And an addiction is very different from a habit.

So far my record is five days.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I shouldn’t check it. I know who it is, but I pull it out anyway, because I am seriously fucked up. My heart beats faster. My brain is relentless, providing an endless series of justifications for checking my phone in single second. _Texting isn’t the same as seeing. I am still resisting. He could be hurt. He might need me._

 **Simon** : What are you doing?  
**Baz** : Smoking.  
**Simon** : Can I come over?  
**Baz** : Better not…

He doesn’t reply right away. See, I can do this. _Easy_. I light another cigarette. I've earned it.

A few minutes later my phone buzzes again.

 **Simon** : Please…I want you.

My hands tremble as I lock the screen of my phone. I light another cigarette. I stand, I stretch. I ignore the aching of my muscles and the rousing deep within me at the thought of Simon releasing me tonight. Of Simon’s presence as I… _Nope_. I brace myself on the edge of my railing and take deep breaths of city air. I listen to car horns, to shouting, to _every_ sound. I let it drill into my brain. I force myself to hear everything, any grating noise to push out all thoughts of him.

I stand again and light another cigarette. _Twice_ I’ve resisted. I am feeling oddly pleased with myself until the bastard calls me, his bright face filling my screen. A picture of just him, from when we went to the beach, before we had even kissed. A picture from when Agatha still accompanied us everywhere.

The memory comes flooding back, entirely unwanted. It was a cold, miserable, fucking waste of a day in terms of weather, and yet we had this brilliant idea to go to the beach. Agatha complained the entire time. (Fuck, _I_ complained the entire time.) But, Simon... he was euphoric. He rolled up his jeans, his over-sized red jumper flying up to expose his hips as he rushed toward the water without hesitation. Agatha and I screamed from the safety of the shore that he was going to get hypothermia. He didn't care, he had a wild glint in his eye as he laughed, the sound whipping through the wind and the waves. 

He was still laughing when he ran up to _me,_ even though it was Agatha who was still shouting at him _._ He got so close, closer than I had ever dared. He had to dig his heels into the sand to keep from crashing into me. He had red stains on his cheeks, breathing heavily against the cold— I could feel every exhale on my face. I had to take a step back to keep myself in control. He grinned, like he knew exactly what was going through my head. "Live a little.” He whispered. He stared at me for a beat too long before winking. I knew in that moment we would take things too far. I knew he would break my heart, and that I would let him. He was still grinning at me when I pulled out my phone and opened the camera. It was a moment I needed to remember.

We all went back to my flat after, it was the closest to the beach and Simon's feet were starting to look alarmingly pale in the cold. We sat with tea and looked through our photos from the day. Agatha noticed the one I took of Simon and insisted I send it to her. “Baz, you’re so talented! Simon _never_ looks happy in photos.” Simon shrugged off her comment, as usual.

That same evening, after Agatha left, Simon brought up the photo again. He had stayed behind under the pretense of needing me to review an essay (which he did need, because his first draft was bloody awful.) It was my turn to shrug."It's just a photograph, Simon.” He shook his head, his curls falling forward. He seemed nervous. He took a deep breath and then he told me it wasn't _just_ a photo. It was proof. Proof that he was happiest looking at _me_. His blue eyes challenged me to dismiss him, to tell him not to say something with so much feeling, to remind him he had a girlfriend. His eyes were pleading with me to tell him he was wrong, that what he was feeling was misplaced. But, I didn’t. I couldn't. I probably should have.

He has always been my weakness. I would do anything to make him happy.

I answer my phone.

“Hi,” he says. His voice is breathy, seductive. I try to imagine where he is, but I have to stop, because the strain in my muscles intensifies at the image of his skin flushed with thoughts of me. I don’t respond to him. He would hear the need in my voice, the desire already pulsing inside me.

“I’m thinking of you… are you thinking of me?” Again— breathy and needy. His voice is like honey, turning my insides into a matching liquid gold.

_Bastard._

I stay silent. I tell myself I am not breathing deeper, that I can’t hear his own breath coming out ragged.

“Baz?”

“Yeah?”

 _Fuck_. I can his grin through the phone—his satisfaction in making me say something. I curse my upbringing, of having the civility of conversation entrenched in my understanding of manners— _It is rude not to respond when someone calls your name, Basil_. Countless times I had been told that, and now it will be my downfall. It will be the reason I have to start my twenty-one day count all over again tomorrow.

I almost laugh.

“ _Baz_ , I’m so hard.” Simon whines into my ear. His words flow through my entire body. I can’t get enough of the endearing cadence of his voice when he hums out my name.

_Bastard. Bastard. Bastard._

I consider throwing my phone over the balcony.

Inhale. Exhale.

_You can do this._

Resist. He’s just a man. Just a fucking beautiful man, who wants to fuck me, who I want to fuck. A beautiful man who I hate, because I love him so fucking much.

“ _Baz_. I need you, I need your mouth, and your hands, and…” His breath comes across the phone quicker now.

I swallow. “Si, are you—”

“ _Yes_." He exhales.

And before I can stop myself my eyes are closed and my hand is sliding down the front of my jeans. I lick my lips, not caring that my neighbours can probably see me.

His breathing is intoxicating, I picture how it feels when we are like this together. When his exhales come palpitating across my skin, curling around my neck, resting in the hollow of my collarbone. When Simon is leaning over me, his own hand controlling the movement and yet it is _me_ that is doing everything to him. _Me_. And that thought alone is enough.

“Please. Please. _Please."_ He repeats. It isn't begging. Simon doesn't beg. He doesn't have to with me. The word rolls off his tongue in a throaty sound, and I picture his matching movement, his back twisting against his bed, his body unable to stay still as pleasure reverberates throughout every nerve. Simon Snow is a fucking thing to marvel at when he comes. Warm liquid pools in my hand as Simon lets out a low moan.

“Come over, _now_ ,” I tell him. My own voice is authoritative, throbbing through my need of him. I hang up the phone. I release myself and sit back against the brick wall of my building.

I close my eyes. I hate myself for a single moment. I allow myself the self-pity and the wallowing. A single moment where it isn’t my fault and then one where it is. A moment where it is okay, a moment where it isn’t. An internal battle I struggle through now, so when Simon gets here I can be with him, just us, no baggage. I rage and scream internally. I let myself cry.

And then I stand and throw my cigarettes over the balcony.

I am a fucking lost cause.

**SIMON**

He leaves the door unlocked for me. I find him in his bedroom, sitting by his open window, acting casual, even though he is stark naked (I'm not complaining, it's a glorious, glorious fucking thing.) I raise an eyebrow at him. He turns and raises one back at me.

“Let’s not pretend you came here for anything else.” He drawls out.

I grin and lean against the door frame. “We could talk instead,” I say. And I mean it. I would be just as happy talking to him. (Okay, maybe not _just_ _as_ happy— but still happy.)

He pouts, an adorable contradiction to his sharp features. “I was promised fucking.” His voice is hoarse. He sounds like he spent the day smoking.

I laugh. “I don’t think I promised fucking.”

“It was heavily implied.” He says casually. I cross the room to him and watch with satisfaction as he grins at me.

“You know I like undressing you,” I whisper as I pull him to standing.

He shrugs. “You take too long.”

I run my hands across his chest and he leans toward me. “We shouldn’t be doing this," he tells me.  I wish he wouldn't say things like this, things we both know mean nothing, because we are still going to do this. But, I know he needs to say it. His guilt needs to be felt, so I indulge. “I know," I whisper gently as I kiss under his jaw.

“We should stop.” He tilts his head back to give me better access to his neck.

“I know," I whisper again. I run my fingers through his hair and press gentle kisses into his skin.

He lets out a soft moan. "Don’t stop, okay?” His voice is quiet.

“Never," I promise. The one promise I can make. I don’t want to stop, and I know we won't. We never do.

I pull on his hips, letting his length press against me. I find his mouth and kiss him softly. He sighs into me. We stay pressed together, hard bodies and soft mouths. He pulls his mouth away from mine and walks me backward. His fingers grab at the fabric of my shirt. Baz narrows his eyes at me, his chest heaving, as he pulls off my shirt aggressively— like my body has somehow offended him. He stares at me, his eyebrows furrowing as he runs his hands over my skin.

"What?” I ask him.

He looks at me, his grey eyes filled with longing. He licks his lips eagerly. I grin, I can't help it, I love when he looks at me like I make the entire world stop spinning. "You're just so fucking beautiful, it's hardly fair. I can't resist you." He tells me. I blush as he traces my jaw with his fingers.

"So don't." I whisper.

He doesn't take his eyes off mine. "I wont.”

I smile at him as his fingers find the button on my jeans. He drops to his knees and lowers them down my legs. He does the same to my pants, so we are both left naked. As he stands he pushes me gently until I back into the wall. His mouth finds mine as he presses into me. I whimper an embarrassingly deprived sound. My hands crawl up his body, clinging to any and every piece of flesh.

I am already breathing heavily, I feel desperate for him, I need him in a way I've never needed anyone else. Our erections press together as he pushes me further against the wall. “ _Baz._ ” It comes out on an exhale. I say his name over, and over again.

He growls. “I _hate_ when you say my name.” He bites the skin on my shoulder.

“Liar,” I hiss at him. He grins against me.

This can’t be wrong.

He slides one leg between mine.

“Tell me,” he whispers against my mouth, his hands pulling at my hair.

“I want _you_ , Baz. I need _you_.”

He drags his mouth across my lips and I moan against his skin. “Fuck me,” I whisper.

“What do we say?” He releases my hair and grabs my hips. His eyes find mine. His stormy grey eyes that I would cross a line for every single fucking time.

“ _Please_.”

It's a command.

He grins and turns me against the wall, his leg still wedged between mine. His breath comes out hot against my neck, causing me to tremble. In this moment nothing else matters. We can pretend to be happy boyfriends having a Monday night fuck. This can be our life. _This. This. This._

It doesn’t matter that after he will say never again. It doesn’t matter that after I will feel the hollow sensation of guilt, and the even worse sensation of not feeling guilty enough, because on some level, on some fucked up plane of thought, I can justify it to myself. I can justify everything.

Because I am madly in love with him, and I can’t let that go.

**BAZ**

“Are you thirsty?” A low voice interrupts my self-wallowing.

It is a reminder to why I hate going to the pub, why I prefer the solitude of my flat or the comfort of Simon's. Which only serves to remind me why I decided to come here in the first place— I am currently in Simon quarantine. Cigarettes can only help so much. Sometimes, getting irresponsibly pissed and meeting random men is the only way I can ensure I don't end up in Simon's bed.

I raise an eyebrow and lift my drink in response. I have little tolerance for people who ask stupid questions. I am in a pub on a Tuesday night, with a drink in hand, of course I am fucking thirsty. I frown and he grins, clearly pleased at my sardonic indifference to his opening line.

I notice a slight twist in his eye teeth. I survey him as he slides into the seat next to me. He’s tall. Taller than I am. It would be an interesting change. His hair is shaved close to his head, possibly a dark brown colour. It is hard to tell in the dim light of the pub. I squint at him. There wouldn’t be a thicket of curls to clutch as we fuck. Most importantly though, _no_ blue eyes.

He orders a drink and salutes me. I cheers him back, and then he leans across to me. “Because I’m thirsty for you.”

I laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

Surely, this doesn’t work. I tell him this. He winks. But, apparently it does work, because he’s already pushing a new drink toward me as I tell him my name.

———

“Simon,” I whisper close to his ear. We somehow transferred from the bar to a booth. I drape myself all over him in an embarrassing spectacle _. Rein it in, Casanova._

“It’s Sam.” He doesn’t sound angry as he corrects me. Right. _Whoops_.

“S’what I said.”

“No, you said Simon.”

I laugh and reach for his hair, but then I remember he doesn’t have curls to pull on. Instead, I pat him bizarrely on the top of his head.

“Close. _So_ close.” I tell him.

“Is Simon your boyfriend?”

I laugh again. A bark, really. At this point I can barely think comprehensive thoughts, let alone say enough words to describe the delicate thing that is my relationship with Simon. I think of our fight earlier. We fought like boyfriends, but of course we aren't. Not really. We can't be until he leaves her. Until then our relationship is nothing more than a fucked up system of release.

I frown thinking of his pink lips quivering as I yelled at him, how I wanted nothing more than to kiss him instead. I wanted to comfort him, to ease his pain, to have him ease mine. I wanted to tell him it would all be okay, that we would be okay. Truthfully, I wanted to fuck him until he was mine, until he was promising he would leave her. How fucked up is that? Even more fucked up is I am starting to think it might actually work.

“He’s a travesty.” I smirk to myself, proud of my articulation of Simon in a single word.

“I see,” Sam says skeptically. I sigh and lean closer to him.

“Si— _am_.” I catch myself. “ _Sam_. I think I would like to go home with you.”

“Not Simon?” He asks.

“ _Not_ Simon,” I whisper harshly.

He grins, a devilish grin that is nothing like Simon’s easy smile. It’s better. No. That’s bull. But, it’s different. Sam _is_ different. He’s not beautiful, or radiant, or some fucking human sun like Simon. But, he’s real and available. In fact, he is completely lovely— and he has great arms. I decide Sam is adequately fuckable. Perhaps even enjoyably so.

I am not going to fall in love with him, and he’s not going to destroy me by saying I love you. I won't crash into him. We won’t burn everything and everyone around us. I won’t need to feel guilty. I won’t need to feel a fucking thing beyond pleasure.

“Not Simon,” I repeat and press my lips to his.

———

I wake up the next morning in a puddle of drool with the unmistakable pang of regret resting under my heart. My head hurts, but not enough to completely forget the events of the previous evening. Namely, not being able to string together a coherent sentence and possibly tears. I vaguely remember crying at one point. In other words, a complete fucking success of an evening.

I groan and sit up, noticing the figure beside me. Specifically, I notice the lack of a shaved head. _Fuck_. Instead, unmistakable bronze curls spill across a pillow— a pillow that isn't mine. _What the hell did I do?_ And then I remember insisting Sam needed to take me here. I remember insisting I needed to see Simon. I remember his blue eyes— hurt and disappointed— seeing me on his doorstep with a tall stranger. But, then I remember his soft kisses in my hair, his whispers of love as he undressed me and tucked me into his bed. I look over to him, sleeping soundly, his features delicate.

For a moment I pretend we get to do this every day. That we get to wake up together, with sleep filled eyes and soft touches. _I want this_. I want to wake up next to a beautiful man who loves me, who promises me the world. A beautiful man who doesn't need to hide. Instead, I am left looking at a man who, for all his claims of loving me, can't see how much it hurts that he won't leave her. A beautiful man who can't give me what I want, because he's terrified to be himself. A man who does nothing but hide.

I start to cry, because after hurts the most. Every single fucking time. And I am never going to learn how to stop. I am never going to give up on feeling the after because of everything that comes before.

Simon Snow. He’s always going to be worth it.

And knowing that, knowing what I am willing to feel for him, what I am willing to sacrifice and what he isn't, that hurts most of all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off- sorry this took me forever to update! It also took me forever to get right, but I wanted to provide some more closure and a happier ending than chapter two! Second- I was editing an old chapter and somehow accidentally posted this chapter before I had gone through it a few more times. So, I am still doing some edits, and hopefully there are no huge mistakes. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy, and are having a lovely week! :)

**BAZ**

He's standing in front of me— breathless and smiling. He ran here, from work, because he's a complete moron. He told me he couldn't wait, he had to see me, and so I agreed, because it seemed urgent. His curls are falling forward, his shirt sticking to him in damp patches. He looks delectable.

I already know his skin will have the salty-sweet taste that I find irresistible. The taste I crave, the one that makes me think of licking him until he is begging me for more. I smirk, thinking of his strong thighs pinned under me, of his broadness reduced to trembling, because of me. I indulge and pull him close to me, griping at the hem of his shirt as he laughs and pushes me away.

"No, Baz. I have _news."_ He's grinning again— his white teeth filling his mouth and his pink lips pulled up. He's beautiful, and I can't wait.

"After," I whisper impatiently against his mouth, his exhales coming out hot against my lips. He smells like sweat, and coffee, and something sweet.

I grin, thinking he probably was eating scones during his shift, sneaking bites between customers, pouring himself endless cups of coffee. I consume him. I push my tongue into his mouth, desperately. I am always desperate with him. I haven't seen him since I ended up in his bed after trying to go home with someone else. Surely, that says something about us, or perhaps just about me. About the magnetic pull I feel towards him, about my inability to resist someone I should. Someone who can promise me nothing.

We tumble forward, not even bothering with the bedroom. Simon keeps laughing, a joyful sound he hasn't made in ages. I pull back slightly, his cheeks are stained red. He seems happier than normal. I tug at one of his curls and watch him carefully. He bites his lip and rubs a small circle into my stomach. He won't stop grinning, and I know my curiosity is about to win out.

"All right then, what's the news?” I ask, and I can see his face light up.

"Baz," he whispers softly while kissing along my jaw. He's under me, his chest still heaving from his earlier exertion. I play absently with his hair, running my fingers along his temple, brushing them through the thicket of curls that sit haphazardly atop his head. He grabs my wrist and forces me to pay attention, to look at his face, with his tawny skin and dusting of freckles across his nose and cheekbones.

"Agatha and I broke up." He says it carefully, gently. I hear him take a deep breath as he waits for me to react. But, patience is not a virtue Simon is familiar with, and his smile bursts across his face again, a smile so big his blue eyes crinkle at the edges. I suppress my own euphoric shouts. I am giddy, and Simon is intoxicating as we pull each other closer. _Happy boyfriends after all_ , I think.

I lick up the side of his face— a face that is now properly mine to lick. A face I can now lick in public if the desire so strikes me. My head is pounding with the sounds of my heart. Perhaps I heard him wrong. He laughs again, a beautiful sound that is light and promising— a promise for what is to come. I've never been happier to be wrong— he can promise me _everything_ now.

"Did you just say—, " I have to be sure.

" _Yes_. Baz, darling. I'm yours.” He is whispering again, pulling my neck so I am forced to dip my head to him. He kisses me. I close my eyes, still shocked, still in a daze. I must be dreaming. How long have I waited for this? How long have I wanted to be just his? For him to be just mine? It feels like forever. A forever I would gladly live again for this moment. 

We breathe— heavily and sweetly together, as our fingers and hands trail familiar patterns. And yet, this feels different. New. Unexplored. In the past, when I was doubting us, questioning everything we were doing, I would convince myself for a horrifying moment that everything Simon and I were would be gone if he was free to choose me. I was worried the magic, the spark, the indescribable need would be gone. And we would be left looking at each other wondering what it was all for, what the fuss was about, when neither of us wanted it anymore. I was worried we would end up being those terrible, fucked up people, who only want what they can't have. We would be forced to admit the allure of our relationship came from it being wrong, at its very fundamentals, our love and desire was all driven from being a secret— something hidden from the world.

But, as Simon's kisses leave electric bliss across my skin I know I was wrong, so very wrong, because _this_ is better. Loving without shame is so much better.

———

After, with the cool tiles of my hall floor still pressing against us, an unwelcome thought nestles into my mind. Simon, in all his blustering declarations, didn't say _I broke up with Agatha_. In fact, his exact phrase was _Agatha and I broke up_. I try to ignore it, because regardless of word choice the nuance doesn't change or matter. Simon can be mine, and I can be his. Not to mention, Simon for all his glory and splendor is not blessed with a gift for words. Double negatives and improper phrases are his forte. I should let it go—let us be happy boyfriends.

Only, I can't let it go.

"Simon," I start softly, "when you said, 'we broke up', you meant you broke up with her, yeah?”

He shifts gently against me. I realize he was in the serene moments before sleep, feeling spent and I daresay happy with what just transpired. This time we were tender, and we rarely are. My stomach drops thinking of his lips grazing over my skin like it was delicate, like it was something to keep from spoils, rather than his usual approach of teeth and ravaging. He kissed each spot along my body like it would bruise if he pressed too hard. His breath tickled at my hips as he kissed down towards my erection. He was so gentle it intensified every single movement. When he finally wrapped his mouth, slowly and carefully around me, I wasn't sure I would be able to hold out for even a minute. In our months of exploring each other it had never felt like this before. Like I was going to burst from love and happiness just from his soft lips delicately dragging against my skin. It changed everything, and now I have to ruin it by asking questions I am not even sure I want the answer to.

He rubs at his eyes as I kiss his forehead gently. I allow him time to wake up, to untangle his mind from a post-sex fog. I start to worry when his blue eyes, now awake and wide, refuse to look at me. He's acting caught out. He takes too long to answer. I push away from him, grabbing for my discarded clothing. His response, when it finally comes, is quiet. So quiet I barely catch it over the zipper of my trousers."Does it matter?” He asks. He sounds small, much smaller than he should. It isn't the right thing to say.

"Of course it bloody well matters." I exhale and try to calm my voice. I feel the vibrations of anger begin to shake inside me. Of course it fucking matters.

"Baz, I don't know what you're asking me.” Again, his voice is quiet.

I sigh, the condescending tone I always try to avoid already bubbling to the surface. "Did _you_ break up with Agatha?” I stress the right word, and I know he understands. His neck splotches and he twists his hands together.

"We broke up," he offers pathetically. And in this moment he is pathetic.

"So, what you mean is she had to do it for you," I snap.

"Baz... I, umm—"

"Oh, Jesus, Simon. You're so weak.”

He bites at his lip, his eyes watering. I have to look away. I feel the tugging in my chest, the desperate begging to let this go. _It doesn't matter_ , a small voice tells me. _This is what you wanted_. But, it isn't. Not exactly. And shouldn't I get exactly what I want? After everything, shouldn't he be able to give me this?

"Baz, come on, don't be nasty." He asks, his voice shaking. It's as close to begging as he's ever been. I hate him for it, because I don't want to feel guilt, not now, but I do.

"Simon," I try to approach him with reason, "don't you see why this matters?”

He shakes his head. "No. I mean, maybe, but truthfully— no. We can be together, _that_ is what matters.”

I snort. "Are you really that naive?”

He glares at me. "Why? Because I think that the only thing that should matter is that we broke up, not who did the breaking part?”

"Simon, listen to yourself. You know it matters. It matters because you would still be with her right now if she hadn't ended it for you.” He goes to say something but I interrupt him— "It matters because you still come out of this a coward.” He flinches slightly as I spit the word at him.

He's scrambling now, trying to get dressed, trying to scrape his dignity from the floor. "Baz, I know it isn't ideal, but we can be together, without hurting anyone.” My anger rises as he stammers on. He doesn't get it. How could he not get it after all this time? "It hurts _me_ , Simon! Don't you see that— _you_ didn't choose me!” I yell it at him and he freezes, his legs half-way in his trousers.

He has the decency to look shocked. "What? No— Baz, that's not—"

I don't let him finish. I sigh heavily, like he's an obtuse child I need to scold. "Don't you want more?” I ask him.

"More what?” He mumbles as he looks for his shirt.

"Don't be thick— it doesn't suit you.” My words come out sharp, and he flinches again. I feel sick at the fleeting triumph I feel by insulting him. He doesn't answer me, and I know I will need to spell it out for him. I sigh again, exasperated. "More than _this_ , Simon. More than secretly fucking whenever you get the urge.” He finally looks at me, and I see annoyance and hurt flash across his face. "Baz, we're not...we aren't... we've never— this _is_ more.”

I let my voice go cold. "Is it, Simon? Even without Agatha can you honestly tell me we can walk outside holding hands.”

He drops his hands uselessly to his side, like he's trying to picture the weight of my own in his. I can see his mind trying to figure out where it went wrong. He opens his mouth. He closes it again. Finally he manages to collect his thoughts. "No, we can't.”

I shake my head. "That's what I thought.”

His cheeks flare red and he starts to trip over his words, they come tumbling out too fast. He knows I have the upper hand in conversation, he knows I could cut him down in a second. "But, you're wrong. Please. I want more. I just... I can't right now. I can't...I have things...and—"

I interrupt him again, mostly because I know it throws him off. "Just forget it, Simon." I snap harshly. 

His blue eyes widen and he pleads silently with me to understand. I shrug at him, a gesture he knows means I've given up the fight, a gesture that usually means I've stopped caring. He steps toward me. I step back. I shake my head and tell him the truth. "I want more. More than your excuses. More than your pathetic cowardice. I want more and you should too.” And then I start to lie, because I am too exhausted to do this anymore. " _This_ , it isn't enough. Not now, perhaps not ever. I'm sorry I let you think otherwise.” 

"That's bullshit!” He yells, with his hands clenched to fists. I roll my eyes and he sets his jaw. I keep myself composed, I make his anger look out of place, misguided among my calmness. "You were a habit, Simon. A bad habit, nothing more.” He goes to say something but I hold up my hand, it is the ultimate gesture of arrogant authority. He pauses, his mouth still open, and I fill the silence. "We had fun, and had one last good fuck, let's leave it at that, yeah?”

I've done it. I watch as he breaks. I feel my own insides snap as I watch the cracks spread across his face, dip into the caverns of his chest. I've dismissed him as a vulgar indiscretion. I've reduced him to nothing more than an inappropriate fuck. I regret it, bitterly. As soon as I say it I regret it. But, I let him leave. Because perhaps if he leaves broken he won't try to come back, and I can once and for all give him up.

**SIMON**

I haven't seen him in three weeks, which means he was right. I really was a habit, nothing more, just something to be broken eventually. He finally noticed I had nothing to offer him. I am defined by the parts of me that can't seem to make a single good choice, and he deserves so much more than that. I've lost the one good thing in my life, and I have no one to blame but myself.

I flinch now thinking of him yelling at me, and worse, thinking of when he stopped yelling at me, when his voice became stone, his expression unreadable. By the end, his entire presence was unrecognizable from the Baz I am used to. The Baz with a sharp jaw but soft kisses. The Baz who was going to fix everything. The Baz who loved me. This time, when he told me it was over, I knew he meant it. I had finally done it— I had ruined myself for him.

When Agatha broke up with me I couldn't think beyond Baz. As she was telling me all the reasons why we didn't belong together, I was euphoric. I was thinking of the lazy smile Baz would give me when I told him. I probably should have been upset, at least _more_ upset. Even though Agatha isn't who I want to be with, I care about her. I loved her. I do love her. She's important to me. But, I don't love her the way I love Baz, which is pretty fucking obvious considering that while she was breaking up with me I was thinking of him. Of his half smile when he hears something funny, of his hair pulled away from his face, of his rough voice whispering against my skin. I wasn't thinking of her at all, because I am a total fucking tosser.

When Baz realized Agatha had actually done the breaking up he looked disgusted. I hated feeling his disappointment, he was finally seeing me as I am— nothing more than a weak man, plagued by flaws and incapable of loving properly— it destroyed me to see him think so little of me. He called me a coward, he told me I was pathetic. He spit the words out like I had left a bad taste in his mouth, like I was something to spit at. He wasn't wrong, but that didn't make it hurt any less.

I didn't have to say a thing and he knew that even without Agatha I still couldn't be me. I couldn't bring him round for Sunday dinners (if I had those sorts of things), I couldn't hold his hand on the street, I couldn't kiss him whenever I pleased. I saw it as us being able to share in a secret that wasn't hurting anyone, at least for a little bit longer, until I could sort everything out. But, he didn't see it that way. I was hurting him, and I hate myself for that. I didn't know what to say— I was left looking at him, my mouth hanging stupidly open as I tried to think of how to tell him I didn't want to hurt him. Because, god, I didn't... I don't. He is the one thing, the one person, I didn't want to ever hurt. I was trying to think of how to say all this, how to tell him I could never be ashamed of us or him, but I wasn't quick enough. 

I couldn't be what he wanted me to be. I have always been a coward, terrified of my own fucking shadow. But, I really thought we could make it work. I thought we could have our own fucked up version of a relationship, I thought he could fix me. It wasn't fair of me to put so much on him, but I did, because I really believed he could do it. I really thought he could fill all the cracks inside of me, especially the one that runs straight down my chest, through my still beating heart. Instead, he left the biggest break of all. He broke me in a new way, a way that hurts more than all the scars and bruising.

Penny snaps her fingers in front of my face. "Oi, Simon! Look alive, you have a drink to make.”

I stare blankly down at the cup she has placed in front of me. I don't remember a customer arriving. I sigh and start making the cappuccino, wishing it were a pumpkin mocha breve. Penny waits until our sole customer is out the door before she starts into me. "Okay, what the hell is going on? You're depressing all of our customers, heck, you're depressing me.”

I shrug. I haven't exactly told her anything yet. She never approved of what Baz and I were doing. She looks at me, her brown eyes trying to decide what stupid fucking thing I've done now. I feel a heavy sinking against my chest. I can't seem to do anything but play into people's expectations of me, and people never expect much.

She sighs. "Oh, Simon.” The pity in her voice breaks me. I bite my lip and try to ignore the tears starting to run down my face. "I fucked everything up, Pen," I whisper. She nods in agreement.  She wraps me in a warm hug, which only makes me cry harder.

I wish I had courage. I need it, but I have no idea where to find it.

**BAZ**

Today is day twenty-two. So, I guess I've officially done it. But, I don't feel proud or happy. Instead, I feel empty and blank. I miss him, terribly. I miss his cheeky grins, his silky voice, his absolutely breathtakingly ordinary blue eyes. I convince myself that I can handle it now. I can appreciate Simon from afar— like a painting. I don't need to touch him or get close. I can just look.

I end up outside the cafe he works at before I can think better of it. It occurs to me I probably should have a sponsor. Someone to call and distract me whenever I want to see him. But, then it also occurs to me that the only person I would trust to be a sponsor is Simon. If I was falling into darkness I would want him to pull me out— he would be the only one who could.

I push open the door, and at first I don't see him, just his friend Penny. Relief and disappointment compete inside me. But then he comes stepping out from the back, with the honest-to-fucking light from the window dancing through his curls. I curse the cliche of it all. Of my heart stopping, of my breath catching, of his slow realization of my presence, and the wide smile that crosses his face. He looks unfairly lovely. I realize my mistake immediately. I am back out the door before he can finish calling my name—his lazy way of speaking drawing out the 'a'— something that would infuriate me if it was anyone else.

———

When I hear the knock I know it is him. Of course it is— Simon can't let anything go. I open the door with trembling hands. He looks at me, his eyes challenging me as he gives me a half smirk— something he picked up from me. If it weren't for his fingers clutching to a take away cup like it was providing life I would believe his cockiness.

"You forgot to order." His voice breaks slightly, giving away more of his nerves.

I shake my head, but I open the door wider for him. He steps hesitantly across the threshold, and my literary class self is laughing internally at the symbolism. We stare at each other, until he finally holds out the coffee cup. I take it from him, our fingers brushing. At first I think he's done it on purpose, until I realize it was _me_ who made sure I would get to touch _him_. I'm a fucking addict. It takes all of my restraint not to pull him to me. We keep the exact same distance between us as, which is hardly any, as I drink the mocha he brought me. I know he knows my order, yet I still feel an involuntary flutter in my stomach at his ability to remember something about me, regardless of how insignificant it is.

We stand awkwardly, his eyes to the ground and mine on the insufferable red sneakers he insists on wearing everywhere. When I finish the drink, and I no longer have a reason to just stand with him in my front hall, I walk away to rinse the cup. I need something else to do, something else to distract me. Somewhere in my brain a part of me whispers that I could just ask him to leave. I promptly tell that part to shut up. As I turn on the tap I hear him carefully take off his shoes to follow me. I'm glad for it. Glad he doesn't make me invite him in properly. Glad he doesn't make me ask him to leave. When I turn around he's standing at the edge of my living room, looking completely out of place, and yet my flat feels alive again. It feels full. I am reminded of the ache he leaves in my chest every time he isn't here. My resistance is starting to fade, because It has been too long since his all consuming presence forced its way into the blankness of my flat. Too long since his blue eyes coloured the white walls. Too long since his bronze curls spilled onto the greyness of my sheets.

I walk to the bedroom, slowly. I don't look back, but a small smile spreads across my face when I hear his socked feet maneuvering just as slowly behind me.

**SIMON**

We still don't say anything. I follow him, and I wait for him to say something, to tell me I am wrong and that I read this wrong. Mostly, I wait for him to tell me to fuck off. But, he doesn't. He says nothing. I take a step closer to him, and still he says nothing. I pause. I wait. He finally reaches a hand for me, interlacing his fingers with mine. He pulls me closer, until the space between us doesn't exist.

I have so much I want to say.

"Baz," I start. He groans and presses his lips to mine. I try again. He only mashes our lips tighter. He makes it impossible for me to make a sound beyond the deep breaths being pulled through my body. I try to protest, because it doesn't seem fair that he can silence me like this, when I need to tell him the truth. But, he bites down on my lip. "Shut the fuck up," he hisses through clenched teeth.

I should try harder, but my knees are starting to feel weak as he works his tongue against mine, and as his hands find their way under my shirt. My skin begins to burn as he drags his fingers along the curve of my hip bone. I can't resist him, and even though I know it is wrong, I give in.

I kiss him back, and my fingers begin to play with the button on his jeans. I am trembling, both hopeless and nervous. He lets out a small laugh as he moves to help me. He seems calm, and sure, so I let him lead. I give him control, a decision I don't regret when his mouth finds the expanse of skin at my lower abdomen. Or when he presses feverish kisses into the hollow of my collarbone, or against my throat, carefully dragging his teeth against my neck.

I run my fingers up the knots of his spine, tracing the lines of his slim frame. I watch as our legs wrap, as our skin— varying shades of red and gold— mixes together. Our heads collide, and his dark hair falls against my bronze curls. We are undeniably beautiful...my heart hurts thinking anyone could believe otherwise. Before I can stop myself tears slide down my face. I hope he doesn't notice. I keep my eyes tightly shut, but still my cheeks grow damp.

He doesn't stop. His mouth finds mine and we kiss, endlessly, tirelessly. My hands find his face, my fingers feeling a dampness across his own cheeks. I brush at the tears, not sure if they are mine or his. When I open my eyes, his stormy gaze is already on me. We pause, just for a moment. I think perhaps he is going to say something, or maybe I will find my own voice. But, neither of us does. He places a small kiss on my nose, and then we start again.

———

We don't say anything after. He doesn't tell me to leave, so I stay. The silence tells me this hasn't fixed anything, that he hasn't changed his mind. I am still an indiscretion to him. I find his hand under the sheets and squeeze his fingers in mine. He exhales softly.

\---

"I'm going to fix this," I whisper into his hair, trying to untangle myself from the bed without waking him. "I promise.”

I need to fix this. I love him. I love him too much for this to be it.

I know what I need to do—what I should have done at the beginning.

**BAZ**

When I open my door the last thing I am expecting to see is him. He slipped out of my bed three days ago, and I haven't heard from him since. But, to be fair, I didn't let him talk when he was here. I didn't trust myself, because I knew exactly what would have happened if I had let myself speak freely. I would have told him that I love him. I would have given into everything, I almost did when he said my name. So, I told him to shut up. And we didn't say a single word as our bodies pressed together, as he pushed into me, as we breathed heavily against each other's skin.

I stare at him for a moment, and an instinct inside me stiffens. Something isn't right. He has sunglasses on, even though it is raining outside. He isn't Simon. He's half here, half somewhere else. He looks heavy and light all at once. He's hiding, more so than usual.

"Simon?” I say. Of course it is him. It is a stupid thing to say.

He grins, but it isn't real. It's a smile a million miles away. A smile thinking of something else.

"I just wanted...."

He doesn't finish his sentence. I wait. The air between us is pulled tight. If I moved just half an inch I could feel his breath. If he moved another two inches I could touch his wrist. A million ifs. Instead, I stay perfectly still, and I wait. Wait for him to say what he needs to say, wait for him to stop hiding. Because you don't show up like this unless it is finally time.

He slips off his sunglasses and turns his head to the side. I don't say a word, but a strangled sound comes out of me. A sound I didn't know I could make. The air leaves my lungs—I am left inhaling bitter darkness and bad tastes. I am left looking at the man I love showing me something raw. He isn't hiding, and for a shameful moment I wish he were.

"Simon," I say again.

He inhales deeply. "I told him.”

I shake my head. I don't understand.

"I told my dad, Baz. About you. About what I want. About Agatha and I being over.”

I still don't understand, so I let him inside. I make a move to touch the swollen skin around his eye, but he flinches. I draw my hand back.

"Sorry." We both whisper at the same time.

He gives me another fake smile, and my heart breaks thinking of a smaller Simon going through life with a million fake smiles. I think about all I know of Simon, the man I claim to love. I don't know his parents, or where he is from. I don't know where he went to school, and I've never heard him talk about friends beside Penny. I think of the scars on his back, the one above his right eye, the rough skin at the top of his thigh. I think of all the marks I never asked about, not even when I would catch him tracing the raised white skin with his fingers. I've been selfish.  Worst of all, I've been a coward too— too afraid to ask the truth.

We sit together on my couch, and I am reminded of when we crossed the line we couldn't come back from. He begins to talk, his voice small and quick. He pauses every so often to think, to correct the words that come out wrong. I don't interrupt. His bruises throw accusations at me the entire time. Accusations I know Simon would never make, but that I would if our roles were reversed.

He tells me all the parts of himself that he felt the need to hide. He tells me about the first time it happened, when he was twelve. He was with his best friend— Ben. They had been inseparable friends for years. Simon's eyes soften as he describes him. "He was just one of those kids everyone liked, you know? He was funny, and bright, and nice. Everyone's parents loved him. And he picked me, of all the kids, he picked me as his best friend. This scrappy little kid who didn't have friends over because everyone knew his dad was mean. But, Ben wasn't afraid of anything, we had sleepovers all the time. I didn't notice at first, how my dad would sit there and leer at us from the kitchen. I didn't notice anything.” 

He tells me about the time they wanted to practice kissing. How Ben really wanted to kiss this girl, but didn't want to mess it up. So they agreed, they would practice. His father walked in on them with their lips stuck awkwardly together.  His voice goes quiet, and I have to lean closer to hear him. "Baz, I was only twelve, and I didn't understand why my dad got so angry. It was innocent. A joke even. I was helping him. Even to me it didn't mean anything. Not like that. I mean, I wanted to kiss him, but I was twelve. I wanted to kiss a lot of people. I thought you kissed people you liked, and I liked him, and I liked Gemma, and I liked... I wasn't... I don't know. It was just how Ben was. He was kind. Everything about him. He would never think it was wrong. I didn't think it was either. I didn't know I wasn't supposed to kiss my best friend if he was a boy— or I wasn't supposed to if I was Davy's son. My dad made it his mission to _educate_ me on why it was wrong. On why I should _never_ kiss boys.”

I shiver, a dark pulling in my stomach.

Simon tells me everything. How the beatings started when he was twelve and didn't end until he left home three years ago. He tells me about another boy he kissed, when he was fifteen. A different kind of kiss, the kind of kiss that left him wanting more. His father never found out about it. But, it was only the one kiss. He was too afraid for more. He tells me how he spent months thinking about that one kiss, until he started to worry his father would know what he was thinking about. So, he stopped thinking. He stopped replaying how when their lips touched his stomach had felt heavy, his skin alive, how it was the most honest moment of his teenage years. He pretended none of it happened, and he promised his father he wasn't interested in kissing boys.

"It was all right. I mean, I dated girls I was more than interested in. Girls I would have dated even with a different father. But, I still was lying to myself. I was pretending I _only_ wanted to date girls. I was lying about this entire other part of myself, how I was feeling. I...I couldn't. I mean, when I met you... It was... I couldn't anymore, you know? I wanted to feel what I was feeling. I wanted...you."

I curse myself for the assumptions I've made about Simon. I curse myself for not seeing everything sooner. More guilt settles into my stomach, because he's a broken person, a fragment of who he could be if he had a different life. And yet, he is still so much more than anyone I have ever met. My hands grow cold as I remember his face when I spit the word coward at him. He was a coward, I won't deny it, but I can't say I would have been any different. I can't say I wouldn't have tried to prevent the same ugly stains from spreading across my skin. I touch my own temple, smooth and soft. His isn't. I look to his eyes— bloodshot, burst, swollen. I've never felt what he has.

When Simon stops talking I take a shaky breath, my emotions torn between rage and guilt. "What did he say?” I ask carefully. Simon grimaces, his thoughts elsewhere, likely remembering the words, the slurs, the aggressiveness directed at his honesty. Those I understand better. I remember the bullies, the boys at boarding school throwing around words they didn't even properly understand. I remember my own father, confused and slightly disappointed, trying to hide both when I told him. He still is distant from the entire conversation of my sexuality, but he didn't do _this_. He didn't throw fists or insults. He didn't try to fix me. I respect him for that, at the very least.

Simon looks at me, with his blue eyes watering. And I can't help the thoughts that tumble across my brain, the selfish thoughts that this is my fault. He did this for me. He would be fine if I had just given him time. I pushed him, I assumed he didn't have a real reason, a reason I would understand.

"It doesn't matter what he said. It just matter that he knows," he tells me.

"Why?”

"Why what?”

"Why did you tell him?”

"Because I love you, and I want to be with you, _without_ being afraid someone will tell my father. Now he knows, and he can do what he wants with the information. And...I really want to walk down the street and hold your hand, Baz. That's all I've wanted since the moment I met you.”

"You didn't have—"

"I did. For you, I did. And, I would again. And again.”

I feel like him, because I can't find the words I want. The ones I should say. I make a needy sound and reach for him. I press careful kisses against his skin. We both start to cry. For the first time I think that maybe we can finally have what we both deserve. I can't fix him, and he can't fix me, but I tell myself we can make this work.

"I love you," I whisper into his ear. I hold him tightly as I let my feelings run through me. I let all of my love pour into the cracks of his skin.

I can't fix him, but I can try to heal him.

It can be enough. We can be enough.

**SIMON**

I found it. I found my courage in my love for Baz— a brilliant, beautiful, nightmare of a human being. I decide it was always there, resting behind my heart, waiting for me to find it, to realize how much I need it, how much I need Baz. How good he is for me. How good I can be for him.

Baz runs his fingers gently along my skin, his lips are delicate and soft. I close my eyes, and I let him love me. For the first time, I feel free. I feel like myself, without the shadow of fear. I allow myself to think beyond the moment. I give myself a tomorrow with a man I love. I give myself a next day, and a next. I give myself the life we both deserve.


End file.
